Players and Pawns : The Onslaught
by Daniel Jay
Summary: Continues after 'The Countdown'. The Daywalkers begin their assault on the vampires anew.


Author's notes: If you happen to run into this story at any other sites (say Slayerette.org) you may find that starting with this page, it becomes Section Three : The Sacrifice. But since the Sacrifice has become so much longer then I anticipated, and I saw a decent climax 1/3 of the way through, I decided to split it up. Mainly for you fine readers at Fanfiction.net since you have to read the stories in one big clump and not in chapters of parts. 

And maybe I'll end up splitting up The Sacrifice again if I can get a decent climax at the end of these next few chapters I'm currently working on. I still around 70 pages left to write (that's longhand). So if you have any interest in this story and where it's going, please review it or send your comments via email. If I know people are actually reading this I'll get it done faster. Peace out, yo!

* * * *

Doctor Jerry Henderson was on his twelfth hour at Sunnydale Hospital. He had just taken two amphetamines and was feeling alright. The ER was the worst. In retrospect, he should have become a gynecologist. The pay is good and you meet a lot of girls.

At least today was quiet. Only a broken leg, a kid with his hand stuck in a Pringles can, and a few other minor injuries and illnesses that could be treated by any idiot with a medical license. Even those hack herbal doctors could make a few bucks on these sheep.

You all can suck my… 

"Doctor! Doctor!" Nurse McLean said urgently, running into the previously noiseless room. "We have a unconscious male in his early forties coming in, in two minutes," she added, thinking she sounded stupid. Dr. Henderson silently agreed.

Probably another guy who accidentally sat on his cell phone. He shuddered. Proctology wasn't a field he had any interest in or mildly enjoyed. It was bad enough he was forced to perform prostate exams.

Turn your head to the left and cough. 

A bitter smile grew on his lips. It may not be pleasant at the time, but it was always funny to tell of the patients at Christmas parties. That is, if he didn't have too much to drink and end up in a bed with a midget and a donkey. 

That's one frat party I'll never forget. 

Nurse McLean rushed out of the room and headed off to prep the operating room. Dr. Henderson surveyed the room. Only a young man who came in with neck tissue damage vacated the premises. He was sleeping, thanks to his daily dose of pills to help him "rest". He would be okay in a few weeks and would live a long and healthy life.

"I envy you, buddy," Dr. Henderson said taking another pill. "Except for the almost being killed thing. That must have sucked."

He took the boy's silence as an agreement and walked out of the room.

* * * *

"To be honest, he's lucky to be alive," Dr. Henderson said. His voice was slightly slurred, but Amy, Buffy, and Giles didn't notice. That last pill wasn't such a good idea. Soon one of the nurses would notice and report his disoriented state. It would be his last day working in Sunnydale.

"He's going to be okay, though?" Buffy asked, desperately looking for reassurance. 

"Oh, yeah," Dr. Henderson said calmly. He sounded like he was treating a VCR and not a human being. "Anyone can survive a mild heart attack. It's the time he spent after that, that had me worried." He ran his hand against his nose, clearing the mucus slithering down his nostril. The three looked at him shocked. 

"I'm just glad he wasn't in that house when whatever went down. The paramedics told me it's a real shit storm. Some fuckers really messed that place up," he said raucous and laughed afterwards. The horrified faces before him were a clear indication that he was out of line. He forced a nervous cough. "He'll be alright. A few days in here and he'll be back on his feet. You hear that," he said to the unconscious man. A second later he was rushing away and said, "Other patients to see."

With the doctor out of seeing distance, Buffy said, "He doesn't exactly instill confidence, Giles. Maybe we should get a second opinion?"

"I'm sure he's quite component, even if his methods are," he searched for a word, "unorthodox." Buffy, nor Amy, was convinced.

"I'll go find another doctor," Amy said. Giles didn't stop her.

Giles and Buffy were left alone in the room with no other alert person in site. Ira was already moved to his own private facility, so Buffy took the time to discuss an important question.

"So, who do you think caused the shit storm?" Buffy asked, using the phrase Dr. Henderson used to, so eloquently, sum up the situation.

"It's obvious it was Liam. His nemesis, though, is a mystery."

"You know who it was. Or at least what it was."

"I suppose," Giles said. He didn't want to believe it and it showed in his voice. "The who is not as important and the where and why."

"Where is Liam now and why were he and Ira attacked?" Buffy said filling in the rest.

"Exactly. I'll stay here and break the news to Willow and Sarah as gently as I can. You go investigate the site of the, uhm, shit storm." Buffy smiled. It's a special day when Giles says, "shit". "I'm sure Xander and Amy will be more than willing to stay here with me and make sure all the Rosenbergs are safe." 

"Especially one very tiny one."

"Yes," Giles said. Joy at the mere mention at the child was a sure thing. "Has Willow chosen a name for the child yet?" Giles' tone was light and silly.

"Not yet. She's settled on a middle name, Austin. She said she wants to wait till she's absolutely sure before he's given his first name. Growing up with the name Willow has left her cautious on the subject." 

Giles could imagine the taunts of the school children having an odd name. "I suppose growing up, Buffy, you had your share of teasing at the hands of classmates."

"Hey!" Buffy said aggressively. "I was too cool to be bothered by anyone."

"I'm sure you were," Giles sincerely agreed. He looked at his watch. Darkness was in full effect. "You better get a move on, Buffy. Looking for clues won't be easy without antiquate lighting."

"Nothing I can't handle. I should be back in an hour. If not…" Buffy trailed off. Their options weren't great if both she and Liam went missing. "Bye."

Buffy had to go back to Willow's room in the maternity ward before heading off onto the mission. She needed weapons and her stake was in her jacket currently resting on a plastic chair beside Willow's bed. The nurse's determination to empty the room left Buffy without a chance to gather her items. Still, it gave her a reason to check on Willow and the "little one" before she set off.

On the way she had ample time to go over the possibilities regarding Liam. Death, it was the ugliest of the choices but it made the most sense. The attacker killed him and his body was dragged away before the police arrived. The thought left Buffy cold but she had to consider it. The responsibility was grave but it was hers, hers and hers alone.

He may be wounded. A fucking big gash in is gut, sucking the nectar of life out of him. His face becoming pale after… And his body becoming cold. So very cold.

If he were okay, why wouldn't he come rushing back to tell the others about Ira? Was he incapacitated somehow? Was he held hostage or maybe he just didn't want to see any of them. Maybe her suspicions regarding his loyalties were true. They were farfetched, but maybe, just maybe, he was… evil.

"No," Buffy whispered. "For all my talk I could never believe it."

Buffy reached the room. The baby would probably be with all the other newborns. It would just be her, her mother, Sarah, Willow, and Xander. Once she entered the room, her worries were increased a thousand fold.

Xander wasn't there.

* * * *

Graham was walking down the dark streets of Sunnydale gleefully unaware of the events elsewhere. He was humming a bubbly tune, "March of the Pigs", that just didn't seem right in its expressed form. Humming the word fuck is just wrong, contrary to his belief. His eyes wandered the streets spastically, unable to focus on a single object. Some might say he suffered from attention deficit disorder. He liked to consider himself a go-getter, a person with too much to achieve to settle down. It kept him sane and bared any feelings of inadequacy. 

Then it's settled, brain. I'm gone tonight. 

The resolution came on the heels of seven months of living in a mansion with several grumpy pissants who regarded him as stupid. One particular pissant really ruffled his feathers. He once wanted to sleep with Fran, but that had long since pasted. Aside from her body and sexy accent, there just wasn't anything worth pursuing. She was no joy to be around at night and became progressively worse when daytime came around. She also became angry whenever he opened his mouth. It was as if she interpreted anything from "How's it going?" to "Who's hungry?" as "Suck my dick, bitch!"

Be kind of funny if I did say that, though, Graham thought smiling. Be hell of a lot better if she actually did it. 

Wishful thinking, that's all it was. If anyone would end up with that privilege he supposed it would be Crunch. Graham was surprised they weren't already knocking boots. You think he would have had an opportunity to get her drunk enough with all the time they spent together. Or maybe slip a few pills into her drink. Just something to get her feeling loose.

The man has no balls. 

The only reason he stayed this long is because of Lucia. He wasn't sure why, but she would occasionally jump him while he was in the shower. He couldn't kill any humans because of the alliance with the Slayer (which couldn't end soon enough), so it was usually the high point of his week.

He didn't know where she was now. Nobody knew where she was. He asked Fran and she didn't care. Said that she probably just decided to leave and not tell anyone. Something Graham couldn't dispute since it was never in her nature to worry about any other person's feelings. Even before she became a vampire, Graham thought she must have been a selfish bitch.

Then again, so am I. Or a selfish bastard I suppose. 

With the exception of Graham, the streets of Sunnydale were empty. Out of habit he guessed. The imprint of "night equals danger" remained on the minds of the citizens of Sunnydale.

Don't they know we don't kill humans anymore? 

"Hey!"

Graham spun around similar to a figure skater on ice. He wasn't sure what, or who the voice belonged to. He doubted it was someone who posed a threat to him. The voice didn't hint at any animosity. In his subconscious, faint memories materialized as clear as a summer day. Friends (he wouldn't have said friends in the past, but with time passing you tend to forget a person's faults and only remember the good things) who were slew for reasons that still weren't entirely clear to him. 

Now a memory was standing before him.

"Rueben!" Graham said like a dog that found a long lost bone. "I thought you were dead, man!"

"Now way! I'm not a little bitch like you!" Rueben yelled. The meeting had a certain "frat boy reunion" feeling to it. "I thought you were fucking dead."

"Hell no! I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, right. You probably leached onto someone else's group and made them do all the work."

Graham looked uncomfortable. "You know me too well," he said sounding mildly ashamed. More out being caught then for lying. "Well, what the hell happened to you?" 

"Fuck, I got out of town before the whole 'Sunnydale massacre' shit went down," Rueben said. "Good fuckin timing indeed."

Graham's tone became sympathetic. "Yeah, man, by the way, I'm sorry."

"Bout what?"

"Cynthia. She was killed by those bastard Daywalkers," Graham explained. "I know you had a thing with her."

Rueben walked towards Graham. "It wasn't that big of a thing. I mean, she was a bitch, like every other bitch I ever went with."

What the fuck? The guy practically worships women. He cried the day Marilyn Monroe died. 

"Yeah," Graham agreed reluctantly.

For the first time, Graham took into account Rueben's clothing. It was dark, very un-Rueben. The guy was a goddamn rainbow back in the day. He wasn't wearing his patented snazy ensemble of high priced clothing. It was much simpler. Like the shit monks would wear. Like…

OH FUCK! 

"Hee hee hee." The nervous chuckle was released without Graham's consent. A kind of involuntary reaction to mind numbing fear.

Rueben's eyes were skeptical. "What's so funny?"

"Just thinking about that movie, Once Bitten. Jim Carrey as a vampire, brilliant!" Graham knew his story wasn't so smooth and the word "fucked" came to mind.

Here it comes. 

To Graham's surprise, Rueben didn't strike him down. Someone else did. He felt the blade enter his back, pierce his heart, and exit his chest. Needless to say, it hurt like hell.

"Stabbed in the back," Rueben said, looking at the blood coated sword sticking out of Graham's chest. "What a fucking metaphor, huh?"

The blade left a tearing, cutting, sound as it exited from where it came. The moist flesh sliced easily under pressure from the precision blade. It hurt just as much leaving as it did entering.

Clarity, it was a word that came to mind for Graham. For an instant he felt in touch with the universe. He could feel the millions of insignificant molecules bombarding and leaving his body. He could feel the cold air wrapped around his dead, animated skin. A lung was punctured. The left one he believed. Blood was filling the air sack and was slowly climbing up his throat, making him want to retch. 

Graham stood his ground. It took every element of his being, but he did it. He wouldn't die on his knees. He would die as he lived, proud and strong, at the hand of someone he respected.

"Though you were my friend, man," Graham whimpered. The frail squeak was not his original intention.

"Why do you think I'm here?" Rueben said, half statement half question. "I'm here to make sure you get a righteous death. Not from out of nowhere, no torture, just a vampire in a good, proper killing. Facing a worthy adversary."

"What about me?" the person behind Graham asked.

"And Annie," Rueben added. Graham's face expressed shock and disappointment. "Sorry about the whole getting killed a girl thing. I know that was a big fear of yours." 

Killed by a fucking girl. How fuckin sad. 

Rueben made a gesture to Annie. He swiftly ran his finger over his neck, signaling that Graham's time was up. Graham just started coughing up his blood when the sword sliced through his neck.

* * * *

The call of the siren was long gone by the time Buffy arrived at the Rosenbergs'. The only evidence of their presence was a yellow tape bearing the markings, "Police Line Do Not Cross", draped across all entrances to the house. Buffy decided it didn't apply to Slayers.

She decided to go in through the front door. The chances of someone spotting her entering the house were nil. The neighbors' reaction to the disturbance was typical. Complete and utter denial. They chose to lock their doors and shut their drapes in a very human attempt to stop the violence from entering their houses and affecting their families. There's nothing more human than denial.

Let's see what the Sunnydale PD has missed. 

The door swung open with a slight nudge. The cops forgot to lock, or even close the door properly. It fit perfectly with the protectors of one of the murder capitals of the world.

"Damn. This can't be good," Buffy said looking at the crumpled staircase. The lower portion had nearly buckled down the center. "Maybe a rhino sat on it?"

Wishful thinking, Buffy. That's nothing but wishful thinking. 

Buffy surveyed the areas to her left and right. There was nothing out of the ordinary than she could pinpoint. The dark certainly wasn't helping. The illumination in the shape of the doorway pointed upward. Thinking the part went upstairs, she decided to follow it. The man-sized hole in the wall certainly wasn't a deterrent. 

Buffy made her way, paced, up the stairs. She moved along the sturdier rim but still found herself flinch each time the boards creaked. She reached the top unmolested. 

She reached for the flashlight tucked away in a side pocket. It was heavy despite its smaller size. The beam that shot out from its lens was powerful and focused. Buffy ran it along the rim of the rugged breach.

Aside from a few frayed electrical wires, it was passable. She scanned the room with the beam from her position outside the ample juncture. The wall on the opposite side was also cracked. The blood staining the carpet in the middle of the room wasn't a good thing, either.

"This place is a shit storm," Buffy said to the shadow fighters, wherever they were now.

The light pointed out the other hole and the other past it. If this place wasn't blessed, it was now.

Buffy stooped under the top perimeter of the hole and walked to the other. She moved past it using the same method. It the adjacent room, Buffy surveyed it with the flashlight. 

Willow was going to be mad. She had spent her entire life living in this room and now it resembled a crack house. Not even a high priced, decent crack house. The kind you went to if you didn't mind smelling like feces. 

At least the battle had been contained. It looked like they made a clear beeline across the room, exiting into the outdoors.

Buffy looked out the exit. As with all the other rooms, pieces of wreckage created by the fight were spread across the lawn. She noticed that the house next in line had sustained some damage. The outer layer was dented inward, probably from a punch or kick. Like the rest of the damage, a human didn't create it.

Buffy leapt off the ledge and landed on her feet gracefully. Being a Slayer demanded it. The ground beneath her was hard. Still, she was glad Ira never got around to building that fence. Maybe Liam would have been rushed to the hospital, impaled by a stay piece of fencing.

Buffy ran her hand through the open grass, grazing the short frays of green. They weren't clean. A black, flaky film overlay the vegetation.

Ash. 

There were no gratuitous amounts of blood so three plausible possibilities came to mind. Liam was turned into a vampire, rose, and was staked. That was the least likely. A group of vampires attacked Liam, he managed to stake one, and he was beaten, then dragged away. A group of Ecrasmau's attacked Liam and the exact same thing ensued. It was possible he was killed in the fight, but Buffy's gut told her otherwise.

"You better wake up soon Ira," Buffy muttered. "You'd be a big help."

Liam wasn't dead, or at least he wasn't killed here. It was definite. Now if she could only find Xander things would be somewhat better.

* * * *

The little boy clenched his hands together and stared at his surroundings. It had been a lively day for him. For a little over nine months he was stuck in a bowl. Unable to talk or even see anything new. He would occasionally feel something but he sure heard a lot. Now all his senses were active. It was a strange thing.

As he gazed at his new world, Willow was fixated on hers. He was so tiny. Six pounds, six ounces to be precise. A thick wad of hair was planted on his head. It was black, either from a recessive gene on Willow's side or from Oz's stock. Though, none of that mattered. He was here and he was healthy. It was all a parent could ask for.

The room was barren for the moment. The circus known as Willow's friends and relatives were gone for the moment. Joyce and her mother were currently bedside with her father, just one floor down. When the nurse came in with the yet unnamed child, Amy and Giles decided to give them some time alone. It was fine with Willow. All this attention was getting on her nerves. Plus she wanted some time alone with her son. She wanted to observe him in a peaceful environment. She wanted to see how he moved, how he cried, even how he breathed. She was his mother, so she had to know these things.

Another thing was bothering her, the incessant nagging when it came to his name. Her mother was the worst.

"You have to name them as soon as they get out of the womb. Only then will they be able to recognize and respond to it."

She replied, "The average male lives 80 something years. I'm sure he'll learn it by then."

It wasn't that she didn't want to name him, it's that she had no idea what it should be. She wished she and Oz had discussed baby names when they were together. Unfortunately the subject never came up. Now she was waiting for a moment of inspiration. Something that would tell her what it what she needed to know.

It was her belief that a name defines a child. It gives them, in his came him, a sense of who he is: strong, sweet, different, ugly. It had to be perfect.

He was fussing. Kicking and struggling to break free. He was so helpless. Logically he was the reason she was here, to procreate, to spread her seed, to keep her gene lineage alive. But this wasn't a logical world. Logical worlds did not have demons. Love is also illogical. But this child was conceived in love. An antithetical concept if ever heard.

His smile, his smile was obviously Oz's. His white teeth glistened under the white light. It got her thinking of what Giles and Buffy said before she left.

I hope Oz isn't angry, for any reason. 

Buffy's dream had her worried. Not that Willow could blame her. In Sunnydale, good days had a habit of being bittersweet. 

In the process, they had to tell her mom about Buffy being the Slayer, and everything else of relevance. She handled it a lot better than Joyce once did. She always was more open minded than most parents. They would have to Ira. For now he slept, the doctors said he needed his rest.

With her son squirming in her cradled arms, Willow made a silent wish. She wished, above all else, that her son would be safe. The boy cried out. It resembled a pleasant coo. Willow kissed her son on his tender forehead. He smiled and flailed his arms around in approval. 

He would be safe, despite following occurrences.

2

Claude and Habeeb were the first to die during the assault on the mansion. Claude was a 902-year-old vampire while Habeeb was nearing 1300. Neither had met previously to their stay in Sunnydale. Habeeb had spent most of his years trolling Southeast Asia, feeding off farmers and basically keeping to himself. Claude was far more ambitious. He claimed that he spent the 1500s as one of the most notorious serial killers France had ever seen. To top if off, he managed to frame some shopkeeper for the entire thing. Habeeb wasn't impressed. 

Both came to Sunnydale around the same time period, for similar reasons. Both wanted to be at ground zero if the shit hit the fan. Though, their motivating factors were as different as their lineage. Glory was Claude's aspiration. He wanted his piece of history, the vampire that fought the glorious battle and saved the race. 

Habeeb wasn't so bold. He wanted to preserve his way of life. You can't walk free amongst the sheep if you're at the bottom of the food chain. 

Habeeb wasn't used to the confined spaces of Western Society. Neither was Claude. He enjoyed frolicking in the country. His father started the tradition. He said the freedom to walk wherever you wish is the greatest freedom a man could ask for. If he weren't so old, Claude probably would have let him live. As a vampire, of course.

Hence, the two started a daily tradition. Policing the streets of Sunnydale they said. In reality, the thought of confrontation was placed on the back burner. The smell of the air, the vibrations of the soil against their feet, the feel of the land, the simple pleasure of the walk was the incentive.

They were inside the house when it happened. Entering through the large wooden doors, as they did everyday. Thoughts of "what's there to eat" and "what's that spell" played their minds. Everett struck down the men, superseding the duo after they so carelessly left the door unlocked. In two agile motions, they were dead. 

No signs of glory or survival were in the cards for them.

To such luck was accounted for by the vampire that witnessed the atrocity. Lois was placed at the rounded table filling the room, next to the fireplace. Her thoughts at the time of impact were, Oh god, it's happening again. A second later she was leaping for the entrance to the atrium, hoping the stairs would lead her to safety. No concerns for the other's safety entered her mind.

Once in the space she was greeted by another wielding an instrument of death. Everett told Ceria to wait for any jumpers. As he predicted, some just didn't want to die fighting. Lois was dead momentarily.

Lois' shrill scream was evidence enough, for Ricky, that things were going downhill, fast! He charged through his room, obliterating the painted window, and fell a floor downward. No sooner than he was back on his feet, three snipers placed around the house cut him down in a haze of bullets. He lay in a pool of his own blood, until the attack was over. Only then did a servant take the time to ram a stake through Ricky's heart. His period of suffering beforehand was long and agonizing.

The Daywalkers planned ahead, as they always did. While the humans waited on the surroundings, preventing escape, the Daywalkers entered the mansion. Various windows provided the bulk of the entrances. Inside, they scoured the housing on a seek and destroy mission. Kill everything and anyone. Nine vampires inhabited the house while 10 invaded it. The odds were most definitely against them.

Three vampires stuck out, fighting with more zeal than the others did. Their levels of success varied.

Crunch clasped the gun Lucia once held, yelling at Fran. "You get the hell out of here right now!"

"Come on, Fran. Listen to him," Robin pleaded. She tried her best to keep a low audible while maintaining the urgency she felt. Fran was a stubborn as an old mule, and was hard to reason with.

"No way! We stick together. I am not going to let someone die on my watch," Fran said.

"Take a listen, Fran. People are dying." Crunch's determination was equal to Fran's; their voices echoed the fact.

Stray gunshots could be heard, originating from another region of the house. It was to close for comfort. The shots stopped and picked up again, stemming from another victim.

"You know as well as I do, that if we all go down there, they'll find us no time flat," Crunch said. Fran's burning stare lessened. Reason and fear were splintering the wall. "I'm no hero," Crunch said bluntly. "I have no intention to sacrifice myself so you and Robin can live. I'm a realist."

"Come on!" Robin was nearing her limitations. Fran or no Fran, she would be disappearing soon.

"I'll hold them back, create a bit of a distraction. You and Robin clear the way." 

Crunch kept looking over his shoulder. The movements resembled a nervous tick. He was nervous. The hunters were closing.

"Come on!!!" Robin now resorted to tugging at Fran's arm. "Quit being such a stubborn bitch," she said callus.

Fran shook off Robin's grip. She walked over to Crunch and wrapped her arms around Crunch's narrow stomach. Crunch was surprised to say the least.

"Hurry up, you asshole," Robin muttered, her face half buried in his chest. She left him with a sad look and ran down the hallway, Robin hot on her tail.

That's right, Crunch thought. You guys go. I'll catch up to you soon enough. 

Crunch thought it to be the truth, but why did it feel like a lie?

Crunch placed the but against his shoulder, anticipating the soldiers of death to attack. He wouldn't have to wait long; Everett was coming for him.

Fran and Robin reached the small, wooden door; feeling pressed for their existence. Fran fumbled with the small key, trapped on the key chain with a plastic skull attached to it for decoration. She jammed it into the equal opening, and yanked it to the side. They rushed through the sparse doorway, hoping no one was in the hallway. Still, Fran took the time to close the door as quietly as she could manage. 

Discretion and speed were matched in importance.

With little light to guide them, they stumbled down the slender stairway. Robin nearly slipped on the corroded planks of wood more than a few times. This sector of the house was foreign to Robin so it wasn't surprising. 

A pale light guided them to their destination. It sprung from a single light bulb, hanging from a thin wire stretched from the ceiling. Touched by the glow in the cramped room were an old pool table, a stack of chairs and a single rusted refrigerator. 

"Where's the exit?" Robin asked, after surveying the dingy room.

"Help me out," Fran said, making her way to the fridge. 

Fran and Robin each grabbed an end of the machine and hauled it forward. Behind it was a tunnel, obviously man made. The sides were rough and etched with long scars along its surface. There was only one problem, another fridge was placed behind it.

"It's so no one would ever bother to find out where it leads if they ever found this tunnel," Fran explained, answering the question she knew was on Robin's mind. She hurried to the other item forming the blockade. "Me and Crunch timed moving all these things at one minute. Let's move."

The two moved swiftly in a duel motion. Pulling the weights out of the way and making room for the next that would follow. In the midst of the process, what seemed like a brilliant plan was now reaching idiocy. Fuck it if some assholes found the entrance at the other end and found it led to the house. Fuck it if their emergency exit was compromised. Fuck them all.

"Did it," Robin said, looking at the rounded hole leading to the watery sewers. 

While Robin was falling downward, Fran hesitated. She expected to hear many gunshots tearing through the air, signaling Crunch's survival. Since they entered the grimy basement, the signals were few and far between. Though a voice urged her to go on. "I'll be okay," the voice said. Crunch's voice was sincere in its statement. She chose to accept it and leapt into the exit. She hoped, but didn't believe, that Crunch would live.

While a foul liquid soaked Fran and Robin, Crunch was drenched in his own. He never saw the blades coming. He heard the person coming and fired the gun at a glance at him or her. After that it was a blur. In the haze of his mind, he saw a figure toss an object from behind the safety to the 90-degree corner. Then he felt a pain in his shoulder, which led to his dropping of his weapon. Another, piercing his other shoulder, soon joined the blade. The only word he could muster as he collapsed from the pain was, "Fuck!"

Crunch lay on midway in the dank hallway, letting the life drain from his veins. The individual pools of blood, flowing from the shoulder wounds, eventually joined. A large red bubble eventually surrounded Crunch's upper torso, signaling his o so obvious demise. 

He never once made a move. He didn't even try to remove the metallic weapons that stuck out like pitchforks in a haystack. In his previous encounter with death, he recalled acting like a jerk. He was crying and calling out for someone to help him, not the sign of a real man. A second chance was before him. To die with dignity is something not all men could have. 

His mind began to drift. His frame of muddled mind was helped out by the lack of blood preserving his flesh. He remembered growing up in his home, now know as South Africa. His mother was a strong woman. Always loving, always there. He could see her, waiting. His soul may have been at rest, but his body still haunted the earth. 

They were waiting for him.

"Mom… I'm sorry." 

The confession came in the form of a small, splintering voice. It didn't matter. She could her him.

"I'm not your mom, Crunch."

Crunch became very confused. Why was she saying these things? He loved her! Mom! I'm coming Mom! I'm sorry for all the killing, Mom. 

"Wake up!"

Wait a second! That wasn't his mom. He opened his eyes and saw the apathetic guise of death hovering over him. 

"Everett?" Crunch whimpered.

"In the flesh," Everett responded. "How you been, Crunch? Still yankin it?"

Confusion took full force. Only for a moment, then it hit. "You're a Daywalker."

Everett clapped his hands together. "That's right, buddy," he said crow like. "I'm a mother fucking Ecrasmau. I'm at the top now, Crunch." He paused. "No seriously, how you been?" he asked. There was no gloat in his voice, only actual curiosity. 

"Been better." His voice resembled a sick child's.

"That's to bad," Everett said. "Tell you the reason you're still alive. I know you're as loyal as a Saint Bernard so I'll try to cut you a little slack. But, I need to know where Fran is? Can you tell me that?"

Crunch let his head fall from the tilted position he held to see better. The sound of a thud followed. "I can't do it, Everett," Crunch said, shaking his head and looking into nothingness. "I can't betray her."

"Listen. You know I'm going to get my information. I can either stick this sword in your gut," Everett held up the sword for Crunch to see. He ignored it. "and twist it around until you're bawling your eyes out. I'm trying to be a nice guy since you weren't nearly as retarded as the rest of these bastards."

Crunch swallowed hard. In the time Everett spent waiting for an answer, Crunch was contemplating his options. His gun was only a foot away, but why bother going for it. He was feeling as strong as a kitten and wouldn't be able to move an inch before Everett cut off his hand, or worse. The only thing to do involved a lot of pain and sacrifice. The noble thing to do.

"In the words of Chris Rock, "bring the pain"."

Everett lowered his head and closed his eyes momentarily, disappointment in a nutshell. "Suit yourself."

The blade was sliding into the tender flesh of Crunch's stomach when someone came running down the hallway. Crunch let out a gasp of relief as Everett ejected the sword, though still pain riddled. Everett stepped over Crunch and mumbled, "Wait here."

Smart-ass, Crunch thought.

He felt the blood bubbling out of the wound in his stomach, overflowing and emptying onto his sides. The sound of the distant conversation was an adequate distraction from the torturous pain engulfing his body. The dialogue was heated. Everett was becoming angry by what he was hearing. 

"Thought you scooped this place out," was the only thing Crunch could make out. The distance and pain clouded the rest.

The sound of the snarl sent chills through Crunch. Everett was pissed! Flesh tearing, blood splattering, and a body dropping were the following sounds. Heavy footsteps neared from the destination. Everett was coming back.

"Nice move," Everett said, once again lingering over the fallen soldier. "That tunnel wasn't in the blueprints so I'm assuming you made it. What's with all the refrigerators?"

"They were the only things we could find in the dump," Crunch said. A thin smile of glee formed on his previously dark lips. The color had been drained much like his blood. "Smart move?"

"I'll say." The sword dangled loosely from Everett's fingers. The blood rolling down the thin sheet was just as loose. Drops fell onto Crunch's forehead. A cruel reminder of how helpless he was. "Jael's going to be pissed," Everett grumbled. "Looks like the party will be having a few more visitors than we hoped." Everett's grip tightened. He ran his latter hand through his hair in a starch movement. "I'll be grand, Crunch. Sorry you won't be there."

Goodbye, cruel world. 

In a moment, Crunch's suffering was over. Like many times before, Everett swung his sword, releasing another demon from its sanctuary. He was the last to die in the premises. Every vampire, with two obvious exceptions, died. They wouldn't be the last. 

3

Liam woke up to the sound of a slick guitar, clanging drums, and screeching vocals. Not that he noticed, at first. His head hurt too much to allow anything but a thundering headache to be focused upon. The first sensation to be recognized was soft and moist. Liam opened his eyes to the thought, Yuck. 

Liam found himself lying on in an uncomfortable position. His head was pressed against something hard. The designer curve on the wall left his head tilted slightly. Stiff muscles would result. His legs were stacked upon each other, bent overly at the knees to accommodate for the space.

Double yuck, Liam thought examining his hand in the dark. A small piece of meat was clinging to his hand; rotten and showing it's age. It was still moist, sending a chill of disgust through Liam. He rattled his hand and watched the meat fly off into the distance. 

"You want me? Fucking come and find me…"

I know that voice. With the help of the familiar guitar, Liam was able to place the music. Thom Yorke. 

"You want me? Well come on and break the door down…"

Liam pushed his upper body up against the wall. He was in a car, a very dirty car. Garbage consisting of vodka bottles, candy wrappers, old pizza boxes cluttered the floor room below the leather seat. The windows were enameled with a lousy spray paint job that looked the work of a child.

Blocking the light. 

Liam's eyes shot to the front of the car. Behind the front seat and headrest hindering the view, Liam saw a man with bleached blonde hair slicked back by many bottles of moose. His head was bobbing up and down with the rhythm of the guitar, now fading out.

"Hey!" Liam called out. The direct approach seemed appropriate.

The man turned off the tape deck and then turned around in his seat. He sported a pleasant smile that showcased his white teeth.

"Why hello, sleepyhead," he said. His voice was layered with an accent, probably of the empire. "Took you long enough to wake up. I've been blasting my Radiohead tape for an hour." 

His mannerisms were disturbing for a vampire. "Who are you?"

"Name's Spike," he replied. "And you better be grateful. I lent you one of my favorite jackets."

Liam surveyed himself. His pants and shoes were the same, but the rest of his clothing was different. A red silk shirt and black leather jacket replaced his simple, but elegant, white shirt and gray jacket. 

Why would… Oh, yeah. The blood. 

His shirt and jacket weren't in the greatest condition after the fight. Besides being stained it was also resembled an item that went through a shredder. The last thing he could remember was attacking Naeem after they landed on the ground. He threw a wild punch at his direction, but instead hit the house behind him. Naeem's iron grip was the next thing he felt. It was wrapped around his neck, suffocating the blood flow from his brain. Then he passed out.

"So what happened?" Liam asked. "After I passed out."

Spike shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. "I was driving in my car when I saw you and that other punk bust out of that house like a couple of flying squirrels! Quite a sight," he said jovial. "I wasn't sure who to help. Truthfully, I just wanted to watch a jolly scrap. It's been awhile since I've seen any good fights. Anyways," he continued. "I saw him put you in that headlock and next thing you know, you were sleeping like a little baby," he said patronizing. A touch of anger hit Liam. "That's when it hit me, you aren't a vampire. I put two and two together and figured you were that fellow who has been helping the Slayer and he was one of those Daywalkers. So I came up behind him and stuck him with a stake. It was a little to easy." Sadness lingered in his voice. "I expected more of a challenge from a Daywalker. He must have been distracted after putting you to sleep. Then I threw you into my car and drove off. No need to subject you to the questions of the Sunnydale cops and I have to wait here for my darling."

"And who's that?"

"Drusilla. I'm surprised you never heard of us." He sounded disappointed. "Me and Dru caused a few problems for the Slayer back a few days."

"I never really inquired about the past vampires of Sunnydale. There never seemed to be a need," Liam added.

"Well, don't matter." Spike turned around and turned the tape deck on again. The angry guitar of "The Bends" filled the speakers. "We have to stay here for a bit," he said looking forward. "Drusilla and Angel will be here anytime now. I would have gone with her to go find him, but I don't much like the chap. Kind of buggers me off, if you know what I'm saying." Liam was silent. "Then we'll go find the Slayer and tell her about Dru's vision."

Liam bolted up from the back of the seat. "What vision?"

"Dru had some vision about Sunnydale." His tone was casual in spite of the topic. "She said she looked to the future and saw nothing."

"Your world will be nullified." Willow. 

"Oh shit!" Naeem's words came back, haunting Liam. "We got to go! Willow's kid! Naeem said they were going to kill him!"

"What? The witch had a pup?"

"Come on!" Liam commanded. "We have to go! Naeem said they plan on killing everyone after they sacrifice Willow's child!"

"Where is she?" Spike didn't know what Liam was ranting about, but his urgency caught his attention.

"The hospital. Willow went into labor over two hours ago!"

Liam scuttled over the seat while Spike put the car into drive. As the tires burned on the pavement of the empty street, Liam kept up the chanting of, "Go, go, go!" Under his breath, Spike muttered something about Drusilla and how angry she would be. She would just have to understand.

* * * *

Jael arranged Everett and Lee with the task of capturing the child. Since Naeem died (Jael sensed it when the stake pierced his heart and turned him to ash) Everett, this new recruit, was his new general in the field. He possessed all the qualities that made Naeem special, a pride in his work and a presence that demanded obedience. Jael considered him to be a mirror image of himself, as Naeem once was.

The two were to be inconspicuous in their task. No attention would be drawn to the fact that they stolen the boy. All they would know is that the girl's string of bad luck continued unabated. Hopefully, their attack will be with no knowledge with what they're up against, or what they are supposed to do. Ignorance in the battlefield was not something he expected of himself, but of the vampires and the Slayer.

Everett and Lee carried but the small blades and stakes they could hide under their civilians. Walking into the hospital, sword in hand, and dressed in abnormal attire, is not something that would be easily dismissed by the common human. 

They marched through the front door, ignoring the pedestrians cluttering the waiting room. Random patients were the majority. Two men of authority populated the entrance area. If Everett and Lee were going to instigate a confrontation, it would be with them. Fortunately for security guard and police officer, they never noticed the two men. Their conversation focusing on the television show "Cops" shielded them from any sense of awareness.

The only person to take note of Everett and Lee was the receptionist, a 50ish woman who spent a lot of her youth with "the wrong kind of man". These men fit into that group, she sensed. A man's walk says a lot about him. Cocky, humble, careless, it leads to his personality. The stride in Everett's walk said arrogant. His hard eyes said violent, or a desensitization to it. In a bar fight, he would have no problem bashing you over the head with a beer bottle, then sticking you with the jagged glass. Lee endowed a similar vibe.

An instinct rose in her to alert Carl to the strangers. Fear held her back. She needed this job. Two kids in high school said so. Carl's brother was on the board of directors and he became angry if you "wasted his time", as he put it. Sending him on an unnecessary errand was such a "waste".

30 minutes time, she would regret her decision.

Everett and Lee opted for the stairs. Traipsing through all this warm flesh ignited a savage hunger in the men. Locked in a crowded space would be unbearable. There was to be no feeding on this mission. It was common sense. 

Upon reaching the second floor, relief filled their minds. The hallways were practically empty. A doctor passed the men on his rounds, but thought nothing of the two men clothed in dark colors. Young people's choices in their daily lives always confused him.

A nurse made her way down the florescent hallway, as did a woman visiting a friend. Again, nothing. The shut doors on the way to the nursery were another blessing. One could not question what one did not see.

The sounds echoed through the hallway. Each time a sole set on the plated floor, the sound reverberated thunderous, in their minds. In reality, they could barely be heard. Silent ghosts off to catch innocence incarnate. 

They neared their destination. A large, transparent glass lined the wall. Through it, the bright lights shone onto the reflecting floor. A dazzling light show to a slower man. 

Everett extended his arm sideways. The two stopped and listened as well as looked. Faint knocking could be heard, though, not close enough to worry. Besides, they could kill and hide the body as easily as pie.

Oh, yes, Everett thought. There were three babies in the nursery. One they cared about. The tag on his cradle listed all the facts around the boy. Weight, height, time of birth, all were there. The thing that caught his eye was the name. "Rosenberg" it said. A gleam sparked in Everett's eye. In it, the thrill of destruction could be found.

Everett opened the door and strolled past the unimportant "bundles of joy". Austin Rosenberg was in his crib, covered by a white blanket and staring at the lights above him. Everett picked up the boy beneath his armpits, the blanket slid off his clothed legs. A sadistic laugh coincided with the child's frightened cry. It was too easy.

"Let's go," Everett commanded. 

Everett held the child mindful. He supported his head with his arm while he was nestled against Everett's breast. Everett looked down on the boy, garbed in his cotton pajamas adorn with tiny ducklings. 

"Hey," Lee called out, grabbing Everett's attention.

Everett raised his head. "What?"

"Are you planning on taking him out like that?"

"Yeah," Everett answered, not sure what, if anything, he was doing wrong.

"He might catch a chill," Lee pointed out.

Everett was confused by this sudden interest in the child's welfare. "Isn't that like making beds in a burning house? I mean, we are kidnapping this child so he can be killed."

"What did Jael say before we left?"

"If you harm one hair on that boy's head I'll break your fucking neck and rip you in half with my teeth." 

"Good point," Everett said; a newfound sense of fear instilled in him.

Everett put the boy back in his crib and wrapped in the blanket that once draped over him. He looked, in a word, snug.

"Now let's go," Everett commanded again.

The two were heading out the door when they ran into the person who's footsteps they heard earlier, echoing in the hall. Pleasure was the first sensation produced in Everett's mind. Now he could eat. It was soon followed by the thought, Oh, crap. Why me! 

Buffy looked at the men, the picture of confusion. The three stood in a stalemate, neither sure what to do. Maybe they're related to one of the kids was the first option, for Buffy. The terrified eyes of the first man said otherwise. She glanced over to the crib where she, Giles, and Xander once gaped. It was empty.

"Lee," the first man said.

"WHAT THE-"

Caught in mid-sentence was Buffy, attacked by the man she assumed was Lee. After the single word, the fist man sidestepped to allow Lee a clear path to her. Buffy's anger controlled her at that moment. She only noticed Lee's impending fist at the last second.

The punch left Buffy reeling. She staggered backward, projected by the force. The opposite side of the hallway provided the stepping stone she needed. Lying on her back was not the position she needed to be in right now.

Stupid! Buffy cursed herself. She cocked her head to the side violently, a placebo to help her gain her concentration. It was too late. Another blow sent shock waves of pain through her body.

She heard the words, "Break her neck and then follow me," as Lee retracted his fist from her gut. The air she was clinging to left her lungs; ejected by the immense pressure on her stomach.

Lee wrapped his arms around her neck. Sheer panic was her response. No air lingered in her body. She gasped to no avail. Lee squeezed harder. In spite of his evil nature, no smile graced his lips. There was nothing but cold determination. This was work, pure and simple.

Buffy lost her footing and began to kick frenzied. She was nearing an ugly demise.

* * * *

Not more than a few doors down from the newly begun tussle was an older gentleman by the name of Philip Gestrason. If there was one thing he was known for by his friends, it was his sleeping state was as fragile as a 2000-year-old mummy. The tiniest noise could rip him from the pleasurable mood of rest. This was one of those times.

"What now," Philip grumbled, (no one called him Phil but his wife and she died nearly a year ago) stirring in bed. "First my prostate and now this."

Equal to his misery was his pride, and the willingness to do things himself. Bums are nothing but shit on your shoe; it was his motto. He moved out his bed as quickly as a snail, determined to find out who was making all the noise and to give them hell. He slugged across the cold floor, his feet barely leaving the floor. 

Once the door was opened, his opinion suddenly changed. 

"Fuck!" Philip muttered and closed the door.

Two people were fighting in the hallway. Not the sort of thing a man of 74 could easily stop. 

"Shit on me," Philip said, unsure what to do.

He thought about it for a second and came to a conclusion. In his opinion the only action that could be taken. He called the night nurse.

He pushed the clicker, climbed back into his bed, closed his eyes, and hoped she wouldn't be killed.

* * * *

The light flickered on the switchboard connected to each patients call switch. It flashed repeatedly, then stopped. The number beneath the tiny bulb read 121. It was Mr. Gestrason's room.

"Oh, poop," the night nurse said, sounding cute as a button when she said it.

She just finished her break and now it was back to work. Oh, well, you have to work for your money so what could you do? She put down the Jackie Collins novel when she heard a familiar ring. The numerical above the elevator labeled "two" turned red and the elevator slid open.

It was past the busy hour for patient visits so she supposed she was curious who came to visit their loved one, or otherwise. 

Out of the carrier was a man and a woman, both dressed very "Goth", as her brother would have described it. They walked towards the desk, the girl walking with a curiously jubilant stride while the man kept very serious.

"Yes? How may I help you?" the night nurse asked, pleasantly as always.

The girl flashed her a smirk then punched her in the face. The night nurse fell off her chair and landed on the floor with a thud. Thankfully, no permanent damage would be done. Tomorrow a bruise would stretch across her left check and nothing more.

The sound of a fight could be heard from further down the hall. The man and woman darted down the long stretch of soft light anxious to find out what was going on. The thought of killing someone wasn't an idea they rejected.

4

For Buffy, the thought of giving up crossed her mind while her brain suffered from its lack of oxygen. She fought the good fight, did more than any Slayer, or ordinary girl, could be asked to do. She loved, lost and had more stories to tell than an 80-year-old vet in a nursing home. Besides, what was the average burial age for a Slayer? She knew it wasn't that high. Kendra was a testament to the fact.

But while she was kicking her legs and screaming her inaudible scream, her basic nature kicked in again. The will to keep fighting, no matter how the odds were stacked against her. And this time she was fighting for her friend's last shred of happiness. 

She threw her feet against the floor, landing evenly. Her strength was quickly diminishing so this would have to count. She threw her elbow back, hoping it would connect with Lee's thick skull. It did and his grip lessened as a result. She clasped her hands around his neck and threw her weight forward, dragging Lee with her.

Thank god, Buffy thought, watching Lee fly above her.

Lee continued forward and completed a full circle before landing onto the floor. Thanks to the excellent wax job, Lee slid forward a few feet before coming to a complete stop on his back. Not that Buffy noticed. She was too busy gasping in her insatiable thirst for air.

Lee rose to his feet not a second before his ride was over. His face said, "A minor setback but no big deal". He was committed to his purpose and that was killing Buffy.

Buffy had her hands gently pressed against her throat when she noticed Lee approaching her, willing for a second round. Buffy breathed in one last, great puff of air before she raised her hands. The two sparred again.

Lee was the first to throw a punch but Buffy surprised him. She grabbed his arm with both her hands and pulled him downwards. Her knee was waiting for the arrival. She let her left arm free and grasped Lee's free limb with it. She tugged at him again, and again. Lee's jaw was taking a heavy bombardment.

Satisfied with the beating, Buffy let him loose. He fell back with a few beads of blood running down his jaw. 

Buffy had no stake and this guy was well trained. Her only hope was to beat him stupid and then pursue the man holding Willow's child, if she could find him.

Lee had other plans. While lying on the floor he swept kicked at the ground beneath Buffy. He caught her right behind her knee, tripping her to the floor. The two were on the ground for a dazed second before they were back on their feet. Using the tradition "ninja technique", by way of throwing all their weight into the air with their legs and pulling themselves up while in the motion.

The two were back to square one, both determined to end the fight quickly. It wasn't going to happen. 

The fight continued as many of Buffy's fights did. Punch, counter punch. Kick, counter kick. The two had their share of sore muscles after a mere thirty seconds of action. Neither showed any sighs of weakness nor were they prepared to give up. The intensity and speed would be enough to send any amateur running to the hills.

"Bitch," Lee said, heaving his foot at Buffy's side. "Just die already."

Buffy blocked the attack by lowering her shoulder and placing her forearm in its path. It hurt, all kicks usually did. Though, the durable bone was a much more suitable target than the soft fat of her stomach.

The opening in place, Buffy stepped forward and swung her right fist forward in a upward motion, connecting directly under Lee's jaw. It was a move she saw "Scorpion" perform in "Mortal Combat" numerous times. And like the game, Lee fell backwards. Unfortunately, he didn't fly many feet into the air like the animated characters. It would have looked cool.

"That wasn't even clever, so I'm not going to dignify it with a comeback," Buffy said, kicking at the area Lee targeted. With each kick, she paused. Giving the sentence a weird jerk to it.

"Buffy!"

She paused. It was a voice she hadn't heard in months. In her dreams, yes, but never while conscious. The sound left her paralyzed, like a snakebite, the poison venom of his words leaving her vulnerable to attack.

"BUFFY!" Angel cried out again, more desperate this time.

Damn it, Buffy thought. Lee's fist rattled her mid torso once again. Her muscles liquefied with the pain running through her system. She felt his hands grasp her upper body, then a sensation of weightlessness. He had flung her into the air.

It intrigued her, the loss of control over her life. She was propelled by a force outside her control and could do nothing about it. All she could do was bite her lip, and hope it wouldn't hurt enormously. 

She landed awkwardly. Nearly standing straight up, only completely opposite. Her neck buckled and she ended up rolling on her shoulders. She stopped, crouched over and miraculously on her feet. The sound of a fight could be heard from behind her.

She rose sluggishly and turned around. Angel was there, engaged in a battle with Lee. To Buffy's surprise, Drusilla was with him. Helping him no less. An odd situation grew even odder. Lee was holding his own but she doubted he could hold them back forever. Angel trained Drusilla and he was nearly as good a fighter as Buffy. The combination was deadly.

The statement came from the subconscious of her mind. A reminder of things forgotten. Willow. 

She started down the hallway, the direction Everett dashed down in his haste. The odds of catching him weren't good.

* * * *

Jesus Christ! I'm a goddamn, fucking, stupid ass, bastard, idiot! This came form Everett, a man who ran the long way to the elevator/stairs instead of going the way he came. An accident made while the thought of failing Jael was fresh in his mind, more importantly, the consequences of the failure. Mind numbing, eternal pain wasn't something he wanted to experience right now. 

The travel around the square path was nearly over. He would take the stairs. It was closer and expedience was important. He wasn't in the mood to waste precious seconds waiting for the elevator to arrive. Not while he held the key to Jael's plan in his arms.

In the distance, he saw two people rounding the corner and heading off to where Lee and the Slayer were fighting. Even if they were to help the Slayer, Everett held it to heart that Lee would make it out alive. He fought best when he was cornered like a caged animal.

Praise the lord, I'm almost there. 

The door Everett sought opened. Slowly at first, then speeding as it progressed. From behind the metal shield, a man stepped out casually, dressed in a dark trench coat. He stopped and moved his head side to side, maybe sniffing the air. He turned his head to the direction of the impending footsteps. Everett's shoes emitted a skidding sound as he halted in his tracks.

Now Spike. This is really pissing me off! 

Everett could see Spike mouthing his name, in question form. From behind him stumbled another man. Everett recognized him from the surveillance photos. It was the one they called Liam. He gathered his composure after his dash up the stairs left him wondering. 

Spike raised his hand and pointed to Everett while saying something to Liam. Everett felt his luck being beaten like a prostitute who lost her pimp's payment. It was a strange analogy, but he spent a few months in New York partaking in that particular job market.

Okay, Everett, what do you do now? Running would be good, his subconscious answered. Fuck it. Now it can't get any worse. 

"Liam!" Everett heard screamed from behind.

Me and my big mouth. 

Everett knew he was trapped. The Slayer was back there, nearing with each second passed. What to do? What to do? Bluff!

"STOP OR I'LL RIP THIS KID'S GODDAMN HEAD OFF!"

There was silence after the cry. He heard Buffy's trot come to an end and the duo at the other end never made a move.

Alright, alright, alright. Now what? 

A door opened near the captor and the infant captive. The sound of doors moving on their hinges could be heard spastically along the hallway.

"Who the hell's making all the noise?!" a woman with a raspy voice asked. She stood, her feet in the hallway, dressed in a standard hospital gown. Her room was just a few feet from Everett.

"Shut the fuck up and go back in your room!" Everett screamed callously. The normally bullish woman found herself cowering at the man and began to back into the room. "Wait a second." The woman stopped. "You might come in handy."

He marched over to her, seized her neck, and ripped into her throat with his acute teeth. Austin Rosenberg's teary cry could be heard as the woman's joints stiffened and she grew limp in Everett's grip. He tossed the carcass against the wall and a sharp crack could be heard. The already dead woman's skull was split in two.

He tilted his head and let the drops pollute the air above him, spitting the blood out in a scattered shower of red. A diluted puddle glossed the tiles between Everett, Liam, and Spike.

"Fuckin cancer filled bitch!" he bawled. Austin continued to cry. The others stood helplessly, unable to help the frightened child. Everett looked at Buffy. "Now you know I mean business," he warned, his green eyes being the focus point of Buffy's gaze.

With a few cautious glances, Everett charged into the room and slammed the door behind him. The silence ended and the panic began.

* * * *

When Xander was running up the staircase, he could distinctly hear some commotion from above. Shouting, it sounded like. Based on past experiences, it wasn't a good thing. Loud sounds were never good. 

He slammed through the door and gave the scenario a panicked glance. There was some guy standing at the nurse's desk, talking on the phone. It didn't look like your everyday normal conversation. He was flustered and spoke fast. 

At the opposite end was a small group of various people. Some were dressed in patients outfits, hospital uniforms, while other's were dressed in normal clothing. One group was centered on someone or something. Xander couldn't make out what they circled. The latter group was gathered around a door. They were in the midst of a heated debate. Buffy was there. So was Liam. Spike?

Blood! 

The center of blood in the hallway became Xander's focus, and the implications of it.

"Willow," Xander said. He suddenly became very afraid. Where were Amy, Giles, Joyce, Sarah, and Ira? Little did he know that the crowd was down a floor, giving Willow time to rest and visiting with the oblivious Ira. Willow's room, it was his destination with a renewed determination.

He started his marathon again. Buffy and the others would have to wait. He skirted the corner when he came to a stop. Angel was there. And Drusilla and some strange man he never saw before. The hallway was barren except for the three.

Drusilla was out of it. She was crouched on the floor, cradling her head. It was obvious she had taken a thrashing. Angel was in the midst of his own dogfight with the man. Though, stating the fight as one-sided would be and understatement. Angel's head was being slammed against the steely wall. The banging was reminiscent of a paced jackhammer. 

The man let go of Angel, who fell to the ground like a crash dummy. The life was practically beaten out of him. He struggled to his feet but the task was impossible. He barely made it to his hands and knees when he fell back onto his belly.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," Xander muttered in rapid succession. Buffy was too far and it didn't look like Angel would be around that long. His hands were already under his shirt, tugging at his gun, before his rant was over.

The two men were armed nearly simultaneously. Xander aimed his gun, which he nicknamed "Hand-cannon"(because of it's size, you see), and Lee clasped his stake, a smooth, wooden, small like lance.

Xander steadied himself. It was a near improbability considering the importance of the shot. The recoil would be great; he experienced it at the target range. But the recoil was equal to the power, and that was of grave importance. 

The owner of the gun shop said the gun was a… ugh (in his present state, he couldn't recall it's given name). Well, all he knew was that it was big and it looked like the gun Dirty Harry used. All the requirements needed when you're a first time gun buyer. It cost him numerous checks so it had to be good. Xander logic in play.

The man raised his stake above his head, like an ancient priest sacrificing a gift to the gods. Drusilla was nearing coherence. She looked at the ongoing scene with horror. Xander swallowed a vast clump of saliva and pulled the trigger.

The next few moments would haunt Xander's dreams for several months.

Xander's aim was off. Where he had aimed for Lee's chest, he hit him square in the face. More accurately, the bridge above his eyes, a stray shot with gruesome consequences.

An inch to the left or right, the bullet would have torn through Lee. Catapulting his brains out the back of his head and onto the floor. And he would have lived. Brain dead for several months, but he would have lived. This didn't happen.

Lee's head was cracked open like a safe. A pinpoint shot that split his skull, horizontally, in half. The top portion of Lee's skull was knocked of its hinges and flew backwards. Blood and brain matter went along with it. The mesh of abolished blood, flesh, and matter known as his brains were completely exposed for nearly a second. Lee's face held the expression of a man driven, frozen in the second before his disintegration. 

What horrified Xander the most was the piece of skull, detached from the rest of the bone. It ascended through the air like a top hat, a piece of clothing tossed in an attempt to land on a particular object. Xander could see the inside of the rounded covering. It was red, coated by blood and the liquid intended to protect the control center of the nervous system.

It continued upward, before it lost all stability and vanished, leaving only ash as evidence of it's being. The rest of Lee's body also disappeared, not before it gave Xander a sneak peak at his skeletal structure and insides. You could have shot here, it said. The cloud of ash was propelled by an unseen draft and drifted onto a barely conscious Angel. Drusilla, on the other hand, was nearing her peak.

"Angel," she whispered, using the accent that hinted at her formed innocence. "Are you alright?" She crawled over to him, and placed her tender touch over his forehead. He stirred. 

"Mmmm," he mumbled. "Let me sleep, Dru. We'll go hunting later."

"Angel," she said, humored by his confusion. "We're in Sunnydale. The boy just saved us. He's grown up to be quite a man."

"Boy?" Angel said confused. He tilted his head upwards and saw Xander, gun in hand. "Xander!"

Angel and Drusilla both rose to their feet. Drusilla came first, then Angel. Both were showing sighs of the battle in the movements. Sluggish would describe them perfectly. Angel was the worst of the two. He held his temple, feeling the effects of a ram like collision. Drusilla's demeanor was less jolly than usually. Then again, her insanity may have played a part in that.

Angel stumbled over to Xander and said, "Give me the gun." 

"I shot him," Xander blurted, still dealing with the situation.

"And we appreciate it," Angel responded. "It's just when the cops come they don't have to see you with a gun."

"Not a good thing for you," Drusilla added.

Xander handed the gun over to Angel. More out of respond to the order than seeing the rational of the argument. Angel weighed the gun it his hand.

"Big," he said and placed the six-shooter into his side pocket. "Let's go check on Buffy."

Further down the hall was a man with a dumbfounded look plastered on his face. The trio passed him on their way back to where Buffy and the others were. Angel gave him his best "who me" look while Drusilla and Xander paid no mind. Jerry Henderson swallowed another pill and mumbled something about a blessing in disguise.

* * * *

The shot caused everyone to jump, an intense situation given a kick in the ass. Spike, the most impulsive of the crew, cracked first.

"Sod this," he said and then kicked down the door. 

Buffy was about to cry for him to stop. Something stopped her. Not enough time, she told herself. Though, she really wanted to find out what was going on behind that door. She just didn't have the courage to initiate the action. 

The lock easily crumpled under the force of his leg. If Spike had checked first, he would have found that the door was unlocked. Thinking ahead wasn't his forte. The door swung open unabated the run was completed and it hit the wall. It slowly creaked back, lending the only noise to the area.

"Hello?" Liam asked, peering into the darkened room.

He wasn't the only one gazing into the silent space. An impenetrable half circle surrounded the entrance. It was packed with Spike, Liam, Buffy, a patient, a doctor, and a few other nurses.

"Anybody home?" the nurse asked.

"Any preference to who goes first? I'm neutral on the subject," Spike said.

Buffy stepped up, not bothering to answer. Speaking isn't recommended when heading into anonymous battle. She advanced cautiously into the room, wary of an ambush. Liam followed unhesitatingly. Spike took a stride forward, then stopped. He purposely blocked the door, preventing entry by any humans. A battle zone shouldn't be clogged. You can't maneuver well. 

Buffy continued walking; her view switching left to right as she did. There was nothing. Only two beds separated by a thin, yellow sheet on a rail, encompassing the second resting-place. It was stretched to its limit. Buffy wondered what it was hiding behind its endless vale. 

She decided against pulling it back. Too many bad things could jump out at you. She walked until she came to the end of the room. It was the only place where you could get a look behind the mask. 

For Buffy, it all came crashing down. Her face did a spasm, choked up by an imaginable pain. The tears began; trickles at first, then immense sobs. She fell to her knees, placing her hands over her forehead, unable to glimpse at anyone else. 

Liam, addled by this show of emotion, dashed over to the curtain and ripped it back. Suddenly, he felt so cold. Maybe it was from the air. The cold draft flowing through the room and striking a nerve. Or maybe it was from inside. A feeling of despondence brought on by the sight of the open window, and what it represented.

They were gone.

_You fucked up_, _bub_, the voice said. _You fucked up._

To be continued…


End file.
